


Making Room

by stuckinastory



Series: Making Room (The Mirandy Restaurant AU) [1]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/F, Fluff, Minor Character Death, New Work, No Reservations AU, RomCom AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinastory/pseuds/stuckinastory
Summary: Miranda is the head chef at one of New York's most popular restaurants. Excellent, driven, ambitious, she keeps a tight ship running and a wealthy clientele enthralled. When an unfortunate event upends her world, the winds of change decide to bring James Beard Rising Star Chef of the Year semifinalist Andrea Sachs to her kitchen.Are sparks going to fly? Or are they more likely to burn down the kitchen?
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: Making Room (The Mirandy Restaurant AU) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694056
Comments: 66
Kudos: 147





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a No Reservations AU. Yup, that movie with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Aaron Eckhart. I'm generally following the plot, but will definitely add my own spin to it. Readers who know me from Livejournal know that I do love my fluff and slice of life, so yes, I will deliver the fluff.

Elizabeth was driving with a little boy in the back, enjoying the freedom of the highway as she got on a call with her sister. Over the line, the sounds of many a meal could be heard in the background, sizzles and steam abound. She could faintly hear the sound of classical music, which only meant one thing. Her sister was once again road-testing one of her recipes.

“Miranda! I thought I’d never catch you,” Elizabeth exclaimed, as the little boy looked out the window, fascinated by the changes in the scenery. “Don’t forget, we’re arriving tonight.”

“Of course, I won’t,” Miranda replied, a rare smile on her face. “Now, what time are you getting in? I’ll have Martha prepare your rooms and your dinner once you’re here.”

“We’ll stop by and meet with a couple of my friends from college, I set up a little playdate with their kids and Asher, plus it’s been so long since I saw them,” Elizabeth turned to the back and called her to her son. “Say hi to Auntie Mira, Asher, she’s on the phone!”

“Hi, Auntie Mira!”

She heard a splash in the background and shook her head. “Let me guess. You’re cooking.”   
  
“No, I’m surfing.”   
  
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Miranda, I love you, but please find something else to do.”

“I do have other interests.”

“It’s your day off! Watch a movie, read something other than a cookbook.”

Miranda waved her sister off and tasted the sauce she was looking to pair with the steak. “Careful, Elizabeth, you’re dangerously close to dictating what I do with my time.”

Her sister sighed on the other end of the line. “Fine. I better get to try that while we’re there.”   
  
Miranda rolled her eyes, but in mirth. “Yes, yes.”

“How’s the little boy?”

Elizabeth grinned. “Not so little anymore. You know, he’s grown so much since you last saw him. I can’t wait to see Caroline and Cassidy too. They must be in high school now.”

“They’re with their father this weekend, but maybe they’ll stop by before you leave.”

Elizabeth winced a little bit. It was a sore subject, still, these reminders of Miranda having to share custody with her occasionally less-than-civil ex. “I’m sorry, Mira. I didn’t mean to--”

“Nonsense.” Miranda said, scoffing slightly. “Don’t start with that now.”

A rather loud whistle from a kettle punctured their conversation. “I think that’s my cue to let you go, sis,” Elizabeth said, before turning once more to her son. “Say bye to Auntie Mira, Asher!”

“Bye, Auntie Mira, see you later!”

“I’ll see you both later,” Miranda reassured. “Drive safe, alright? I love you.” 


	2. Place Setting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected event throws Miranda in for a whirlwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rouge's interiors are similar to Clare Smyth's Core in London, with very strategic red accents. Miranda named it Rouge after her prankster redheads, who will be making an appearance in this story.

Miranda strode into the kitchen at Rouge mid-morning. Her mornings, when she has them to herself, start early, always spent going to markets, getting ingredients, and road-testing one recipe over another, before going over the menu and reservations. When her twin daughters are at home, they are spent cooking breakfast for her children, the act of preparing and eating giving way to a more natural conversation, one that the twins have dubbed catch-up time. 

Today, she strode into Rouge after finishing her morning preparations, produce and protein already delivered to the restaurant, deliveries already updated for the week. Her sommelier, Nigel, gives her a brief smile once she’s in. “Good morning, chef.”

They exchange cheek kisses and she leaves him to go over his inventory. 

When she enters the kitchen, her sous chef, Emily, is going over the evening’s menu with the rest of the staff. The kitchen porters have already started with the prep and the line cooks are listening to Emily intently, until they see her stroll in and a slight wave of fear washes over their faces. _Good_. Only Serena, her saucier, manages to stay serene even after her entrance. 

She does a customary sweep of the kitchen, checking every nook and cranny. She hates waste and despises carelessness and grime even more. Satisfied, she makes her way back to Emily. 

Miranda only raises an eyebrow at her sous chef, as the rest of the brigade turns back to their duties for the day. On the counter is the entire menu, every dish prepped for her to try. Her staff has been with her for years, and they know just as well as she does that she would not tolerate flaws, not from her team. Master and apprentice go over every dish, Emily sharing her notes on the produce, the speed, and the quality of the preparation. Miranda takes a bite or two, taking notes on the piece of her paper and barking out adjustments to the chefs. 

Emily’s rounded belly makes things a bit more of a challenge as the two of them move around, but she is determined to get through the dishes and Miranda makes no comment. 

“Before we left last night, you mentioned that there was an urgent issue with Jocelyn,” Miranda murmured, as she gazed intently at the evening’s menu. “Has that been addressed?”

Emily rolls her eyes and Miranda suppresses a smirk. She would not tolerate such behavior from anyone else in her kitchen other than Emily or Nigel. “She insists on dacquoise with some chocolate beetroot glaze,” Emily describes, almost exasperated, and then pulls up the dish. 

Miranda surveys the plate with a critical eye. Chocolate and beetroot would appeal to the West Village’s more bohemian residents, certainly, and the taste certainly balances itself, but Miranda quickly realizes what has gotten Emily’s hackles up. The glaze is garishly pink, as if someone dumped paint on the dessert, a fit of rebellion in contrast to the delicate dacquoise. 

She would serve it if she had confidence that Jocelyn had created it with the intent to develop a voice, a perspective on her work, but--

Jocelyn looks up at her, then down at the dish, and then gulps. 

\--Unfortunately, that is not the case. She purses her lips, and Emily scampers to take the dish away from her, as if it would burst into flames. A shame, it was a good idea. 

“I don’t want dacquoise, I want tarts filled with warm rhubarb compote, with that delicate Hot Toddy cream and the winter fruits marinated in citrus. Then the chocolate cake, of course, but let’s see if we can add a bit more heat. Maybe a hint of ancho along with cayenne? I want an ode to winter, not a wilting end,” Miranda says, and Jocelyn blanches. “I want something indulgent, something enjoyable, something to lift the spirits. Is it impossible to craft a light, indulgent, enjoyable dessert? Am I reaching for the stars here? Not really.”

With a quick tilt of her head, Miranda summons Jocelyn, who is blushing, ready for a reprimand. Miranda takes a fork to the dacquoise and tastes it. As she suspected, it is well-balanced. The glaze is viscous enough, not runny. The cream is light. Jocelyn is more than a capable patissier and Miranda would lose her to another Michelin-starred restaurant if not for her lack of confidence, her food demure, at times veering dangerously close to submissiveness.

Miranda looks at the dish again, and then at Jocelyn, before raising an eyebrow.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Jocelyn stumbles and she almost stutters, but she marshals herself into enough calm to actually talk to Miranda. “Our desserts are composed and elegant, and they should be, but I thought the pink would contrast with the dark chocolate ganache and the buttercream, and it would be...”

Miranda lifts an eyebrow. The kitchen has nearly gone quiet, only a few chops punctuating the silence, the entire brigade waiting in bated breath for Jocelyn’s explanation. 

“Like a snowball hitting your back.”

Miranda looks at the plate, the merengue circles looking like a ball from an angle and a snowflake on another, the pink a wild splatter. It is inventive and playful, and she has no doubt that many a customer would be delighted by it. She nods. The room exhales at once. 

“Very well,” Miranda turns to Emily. “Add the dacquoise to the menu, tonight’s diners will find themselves in for a surprise. Make sure the roundsmen know exactly how it’s made, I want a sample right after I come back from my afternoon appointment.” 

She scribbles a few lines on the paper and keeps it in her apron. She then looks up at Jocelyn, who is now trying to keep her glee under wraps. Miranda thinks she isn’t that successful.

Miranda peers at her from behind her glasses. “If you are to succeed in this industry, you need a voice, Jocelyn, remember that. The kitchen does not reward cowardice.”

Jocelyn nods and scurries away. 

“Jocelyn?” Miranda calls out, and her patissier turns to her once more. “Add nutmeg.”

The line cooks smile among each other as Miranda turns back to head to her office and Emily is left glaring at them. “Well, what are you waiting for? Move!”

Miranda saves her chuckle until she’s seated at the office. 

… 

That afternoon, she paid a visit to Dr. Akopian. 

“Miranda, what are you thinking about?” Dr. Akopian asks as she leans on the couch. It’s a wonderful space, a greenhouse turned into an office. Miranda supposes that if she wasn’t practically pressured to visit Dr. Akopian that she would enjoy the space even more. 

She’s a transplant to this city, like Miranda once was, but found that New York somehow suited her and her husband better than California ever did. 

“Chicken.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And langoustines.”

“What about chicken… and langoustines?” said Dr. Akopian. She waits her out, and that’s really why Miranda can bear these sessions. She lets Irv waste his money by just listening to her talk about food. She has enormous amounts of patience and Miranda can respect that. 

“What would the perfect roast chicken be like? Succulent flesh, even the breasts, a peppery, almost crisp skin on the outside. Warm gravy, maybe made with red wine, chicken skin, and pink peppercorns. Stuffed with lemongrass, ginger, garlic, maybe even some pandan,” Miranda rattles off. “Maybe I’ll brush it with a lime and chili butter before cooking it.”

The doctor leans back against her seat and tries not to sigh at the image Miranda presents. 

“For the langoustine, maybe a soup? Grilled first, it would be wonderful, with a saffron sauce. Then perched gently on top of a tomato-carrot foam and a broth made with the heads of prawns, garlic, togarashi, and a bit of yuzu. Some dashi, maybe? With mussels, shrimp, maybe even lobster,” Miranda said, already thinking about what it would look like. A bit more rustic, compared to what she’d normally serve. “And on the table a slab with freshly baked sourdough.”

Her mind wandered to summers spent near water. A lake, an ocean, a river. Her father trying to teach three kids to fish. Her mother handing her a knife, teaching her to scale and fillet a fish. She thinks of Saturday night dinners, when her mother would roast chicken, the kitchen smelling of garlic and pepper gravy. They never tired of it. It was just one recipe, but they loved it. 

“Or what if I do sweetbreads, instead? Black garlic, herbs, onions sauce,” Miranda adds, imagining herself swiping the sauce with a spoon. “Maybe with mixed greens on the side and on top of a crunch made from a mix of pulverized toasted bread, crispy pork skin, and maybe even chopped up pork ears. They’re crispy when deep-fried. There’s nothing like it, really.”

“Miranda, I think we should try something new,” noted Dr. Akopian. “Maybe for today, I can ask you a question and you can answer.” At Miranda’s silence, she continued. “Why are you here?”

“My boss said I needed to go to therapy or he’d fire me.”

When nothing more was forthcoming, the doctor switched tracks. “How long ago was your last relationship?”

“Five years ago.”

“What happened?”

Miranda looked at her nails briefly, bringing her legs up on the couch. “He wanted to move in.”

“What was so wrong about moving in?”

“I have my daughters and my work. Where would he fit in? How would he, when he wanted to bring so many things to my townhouse? Why would he, when he didn’t even know my girls that well? If I let him in and they realized they didn’t like him, what would happen to us?”

“They didn’t like him?”

“I don’t think they cared for him,” Miranda replied. “They’re teenagers. They have a dad. I don’t think they were raring for another one.”

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Care about their opinion?” Dr. Akopian asked. “Did you want them to approve?”

Miranda looked away. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. I can’t remember.”

Dr. Akopian leaned back on her own couch after scribbling on her notebook. She looked at the clock. Another hour spent on food. She looked at her patient and wondered if she even thought of anything else. Nothing consumed her mind like food. And her children. It was fascinating and maybe a little terrifying, if you thought about it, that level of monomaniacal focus.

“I think we should stop here for the day. I don’t want you to be late for service,” said Dr. Akopian. “I’ll see you next week, Miranda.”

“Well, yes.”

And then she was out the door. 

… 

The kitchen was in a flurry, furious and quick and noisy. If it were a symphony, Miranda was the conductor, checking cuts of meat and ribbons of vegetables and pots of sauces. These days, unless she felt like commandeering a station (and terrorizing a line cook or a commis chef), her work would be done before service even started. Most of her work was done in markets, talking to her suppliers, and in her kitchen, coming up with new recipes. 

“Table five, two of the house salads to start, followed by one beef tenderloin, one salmon,” Miranda called out, to a chorus of ‘Yes, chef!’. 

“Table one, one rack of lamb and one salmon.”

“Yes, chef!”

She then tended to the plates that Emily put on her counter. One of her favorite parts of her service was presenting her amuse-bouche. This week, it was a Parmigiano-Reggiano mousse atop layers of garlic, basil, and parsley tuilles, served with an herb sauce. She stacked the tuilles, one on top of the other, before taking a spoon and nestling the mouse on top. It looked like a cloud, about to descend on a pile of autumn leaves. She did it once more, and once satisfied, she sent the plates off to one of the waiters. 

“Where are we on table twelve?”

“Two minutes on the pork medallions, chef!” said Paul, her grill chef. “I need more pans, Jaime, we’re running out here!” 

Jaime comes running with pots, pans, and a few spoons, artfully dodging some of the waiters. 

Miranda went to the counter for the salmon and the vegetable roast she was sending off to table eight and nodded at Emily, who quickly dispatched the order to one of the waiters who had just returned. She was preparing another set of amuse-bouches when she heard one of her waiters, Christine, huffing while straightening her apron. 

“Ugh, that guy on table ten is a creep,” Miranda looked up at her briefly while arranging the tuille. “Leering at me the entire time. And every week, a new bimbo.” 

Dan rolled his eyes. “I served him last week. He just stared at his date’s breasts the entire evening and then stiffed me on the tip, even though he was practically drooling over his Wellington. Disgusting.”

“Table six, two house salads, two salmon,” Miranda called out. “Where are we on twelve?” 

“Just fifteen seconds more, chef!”

She looks at the orders again and sees nothing out for Table Eight. Her voice drops, low, soft, and restrained. The kitchen’s volume drops immediately. “What about eight?”

“Chef, I’m sorry,” One of the commis chefs spoke up. “We were waiting on a pot for the soup.”

“And yet I have heard nothing from you about pots,” Miranda replied, sizing up the lanky young man in front of her. “I have heard Paul scream for them, as did Isabella, before him. Is Jaime supposed to read your mind and bring you whatever you needed?”

“--No, ma’am.” The young man blanched, and Emily quietly redirected everyone to get back to work. “I mean, no chef. It was supposed to be me, chef. I mean, I was supposed to ask Jaime to bring me the freshly washed pot and spoon, chef.”

Sophia, Miranda’s potager, saves the young man the embarrassment and calls Jaime, asking for pots and spoons, which Jaime quickly delivers to her station. Miranda nods at her. “Thank God, someone came to work today.” She also turned to Jaime and smiled at him. “Thank you, Jaime.” The young man nodded and headed back to the scullery. “Straightforward, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, chef.” 

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The young man only nods, then turns back and finishes blitzing the ingredients for the soup. 

Emily hands her boss a glass bottle with water. “Pellegrino, chef.” 

“Thank you,” Miranda replies, after taking a generous swig. “You’d make a wonderful mother.”

Emily tried not to blush too hard at the praise and shrugged. “I have to practice when I can, right? Someone taught me to never leave the important things to luck.” 

Miranda smiled. “My sister and my nephew will be arriving in an hour or two, so I will be out by 9:30, latest 10. Make sure Jocelyn doesn’t let the nerves get the best of her. It’s a new dessert, not the unveiling of the ceiling for the Sistine Chapel. We’re expecting a few deliveries tomorrow so there needs to be space in the pantry and the walk-in for it.”

She then turns back to yet another set of amuse-bouches, this time for a party of four, when the kitchen phone rings. “If it’s my sister, tell her I will be home shortly. I said 9:30, earliest.”

Christine listens intently and then calls for Miranda, a somber look on her face. “Miranda, I think you need to take this.” Emily takes over the amuse-bouches as Miranda holds the receiver. 

“Yes.”

“Ms. Priestly, I’m Dr. Joseph Burton, we found your information and we need you to go to New York Presbyterian immediately. Please.”

In just a few minutes, a car was waiting outside Rouge. Miranda took off, not worrying about what her patrons thought she must have looked like. 

…

Miranda stopped the doctor doors before they could reach Asher’s room. “What happened?” 

“From what the police told us, a truck hit them from the left side. It was speeding, the police suspect that it might not have had the proper protection against the snow,” The dark-haired, middle-aged doctor noted. “It killed her immediately. I’m so sorry, Ms. Priestly.”

Miranda could not think past the young boy, who probably didn’t even know what had happened to his mother. “What, what about Asher? How is he?”

“He has a minor fracture on his left arm, but we’ve already set the cast. To be safe, I’d give it at least four to six weeks,” The doctor replied. “How can we get in touch with his father?”

“He-- he was never in the picture. Our parents are long dead, so is our eldest brother,” A realization swept over her, and Miranda took a deep breath. “I’m the only family he has left.”

“If you are his sole guardian, Ms. Priestly, I’d like to talk to you about his care,” The doctor noted. “We have a number of pediatricians who can ensure that he continues to get the care that he needs, that his shots are up to date, but I cannot stress enough how much he needs a therapist. He needs a stable life at home. There are huge changes ahead of him.”

Miranda only nodded. 

“When can he leave the hospital?”

“Most likely a day or two.”

The two of them stopped in front of the door. “If you need anything at all, Ms. Priestly, I’ve made sure that you have my number.” 

Miranda nodded again. 

She then opened the door and sat on the chair, next to Asher’s bed. She brushed his hair back from his eyes and caressed his cheek. He stirred, his eyes fluttering. He looked at Miranda, then his arm, then the other side of the room. “Auntie Mira, where’s Mommy?”

Miranda clasped his hand and shook her head. 

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” His lips wobbled and he started weeping. Then he wailed, loudly, his grief ringing in her ears. 

Miranda held him, rubbing circles on his back. “I’m so sorry, Asher. I’m so sorry.”

“I want her back! I want my mom back!”

He wailed and wailed, Miranda holding him close and rubbing circles on his back the entire time. She let him wail until he tired himself to sleep, setting him back gently to keep his cast intact. 

She hadn’t prayed in years, but as she sat back down, she found herself saying a prayer for her sister. Free-spirited, cheerful Elizabeth. And for Asher, the light of her life. A tear fell down from her eye and she steeled herself. 

Her phone rang. It was her agent, Leslie. Leslie was a no-nonsense woman who turned her share of her first divorce into considerable wealth for her and her girls, keeping her from having to put out a reality show or two. Leslie was a confidante, a shield. A knight. “I heard the news, Miranda. What can I do for you?”

“I need to speak to my lawyer first thing in the morning. I need movers to bring my sister’s things from Pennsylvania to the townhouse. And I need John to repaint and redecorate the guest bedroom on the second floor, the one at the same floor as the girls' room, by the weekend.”

“Consider it done. Miranda, I--”

Miranda ended the call. 

…

The next week was a blur. If anyone asked her what happened, she would say that she only remembered moments. The feeling of Asher’s small, cold hands in hers as they lowered the casket, her twin daughters standing right behind her. Nigel sitting across from her in her kitchen as they had a drink in the wee hours of the morning. Cassidy and Caroline reading to Asher before the three of them fell asleep in a single bed. 

Her sister’s letter, which she read in her bedroom, after tucking Asher in. 

_Dear Miranda,_

_I named him Asher, which means blessed or happy. I don’t think I could find a name more fitting than that. I am overcome with both joy and gratitude. I see his hair peeking out of his cap and I think I could never be happier. I don’t know if it’s just the months or if I’m sentimental, but I don’t think I knew what happy was until I met him. I walk to the kitchen to grab a bite and already, I miss him. When I return to his crib, it’s like seeing him for the first time._

_You will adore him, I know._

_I can’t wait till things are settled down and we can fly to see you, Caroline, and Cassidy. We’ll see you and maybe we’ll have a picnic (a picnic sounds divine) and maybe you can teach me some of your recipes, because between the two of us, you’ve always been the best cook._

_Should anything happen to me, I want you to know that you are the only person that I trust to love him, take care of him, and raise him._

_After all, I turned out alright, didn’t I?_

_Love,_

_Elizabeth_


	3. Not Amuse, Just Bouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am BSing my way through these recipes, I'll have you know. Bonus points to anyone who comes up with the right guess to the song and artist that Andy references to some point in this chapter.
> 
> Also, imagine Asher as a young Jared Gilmore (from Once Upon A Time). That's basically who I based Asher's looks on.

The two of them sat together at her bar. Miranda looked as nonplussed as he had ever seen her. If he didn't know her any better, he would say she was completely in shock. To be honest, he can't be sure that she wasn't. He had no reference for this moment. When they'd met, she'd just barreled through being a commis chef, enduring sneers and the occasional leering from the men in the kitchen, about to bulldoze the men and be one of Roger Vergé's most trusted lieutenants. He always thought she had the strength of a thousand hurricanes, her presence looming like a mountain range. She had the stamina of stampeding oxen and she wasn't shy about saying so.

Their friendship had spanned two decades now, if not more, and took them from being the bottom of the totem pole to the top of New York— _no, the world's_ —culinary scene. Their friendship spanned letters, written across the pond, sometimes with the occasional rare ingredient or bottle of wine. Restaurants, boyfriends, and husbands in between. And of course, her two girls.

He had no idea what to do with the woman next to him, fragile and possibly brittle, who could be torn apart by a mere whisper.

So he did what he did best: He opened a bottle.

"What will you do now?"

"I don't know, Nigel," She closed her eyes, then took a swig of wine. "I watched them lower my sister's casket. There are only the four of us, now. There is no one left."

He polished off his wine.

"I know he didn't put it to you gently. Or tactfully. But he's right, Miranda," Nigel ventured.

Earlier that day, Irv had talked to Miranda outside of the church and tried to put his foot down, to tell her to take a month off, at least. He wasn't wrong, but he'd also made the mistaking of accosting Miranda _outside a church_. Miranda would only deign to take two weeks off. Nigel knew she was worried about leaving her very pregnant sous chef to take care of things, but the kitchen was more than capable and Serena was stepping up to be a potential junior sous chef.

"What am I to do for a month?"

"Fix your affairs, get the kid into a new school, make sure his broken arm heals well, talk to someone about all this," Nigel enumerated, pouring himself and Miranda another glass. He never even noticed that she'd already polished off hers. "Get into a different routine. Take a break. You know he'd never offer it out of the kindness of his heart, so him offering it now means something."

"Unless he's planning to replace me."

"Miranda, we both know you don't like each other, but I don't think he's that heartless." Nigel said. "Word will spread. Maybe he'll hire a sous chef, but Emily will rule the kitchen in the meantime."

"She'd like that."

"At least consider it. Or are you scared that she can't hack it?"

"That's not—" Miranda said, pinching her nose. "Two weeks."

"Miranda."

"Two weeks, no more." Miranda said, waving off his protestations. "I spoke to my lawyer before today. I'm adopting him. The papers are being drawn up. He's going to Dalton, because I see no point in separating him from his cousins. His room has been redecorated."

"Two weeks, Miranda," Nigel ordered, and she turned to him, surprised at his tone. "I don't want you to see you anywhere near Rouge for two weeks. You're damn well sure I will call this townhouse day and night if I have to. Emily can handle the restaurant. Emily and I _will_ handle the restaurant."

Miranda nodded. "Alright, alright."

* * *

Asher's room, freshly painted in baby blue, was filled to the brim with his books, toys, posters, and gadgets. Miranda had tried to ensure that as many of her sister's things were with him. Some nights, she'd catch him looking at photos of himself and his mother on his computer. Sometimes, he'd tell stories to his stuffed animals (he had a family of bears whose names Miranda had yet to learn). Other nights, he would be watching videos of him and Elizabeth.

Dr. Akopian had recommended a colleague of hers to see Henry, but Miranda didn't know how to even begin to broach the subject with a child who was old enough not to be cajoled to go to therapy and young enough to maybe not understand exactly what it meant.

Talk of therapy aside, the two of them managed to form a quiet routine.

In the two weeks that she was home, Miranda would make breakfast for all of them, catch up with Caroline and Cassidy, and then take them to school, Asher in tow. He'd been a little intimidated by the kids and the environment at Dalton, but they allowed him to meet teachers one-on-one and sit in on some classes, so Miranda was confident that by the end of the two weeks, he could go back to school. Sometimes they'd just lounge at the park, Miranda writing down notes for recipes while Asher read a book. Other times they'd just stay at home, watching cartoons until it was time for lunch. Asher would sit silently, watching her as she cooked. She tried to keep it simple, stick to things that Caroline and Cassidy enjoyed when they were younger, like buttermilk fried chicken.

"Auntie Mira?" Asher asked, as he watched Miranda fry some chicken.

"Yes?"

"What's going to happen to our house?"

"They'd have to sell it, darling," Miranda said quietly. "Why, is anything missing?"

Asher shook his head quietly. Miranda exhaled a sigh of relief.

"Can you buy it?"

"The house?"

"Yes."

Miranda very nearly asked, "Why do you want it?" but stamped that thought immediately. "I don't know, Asher. Do you want me to?"

Asher shrugged and picked at his shirt.

"Do you want to go to the park or read comics after lunch?"

Asher shook his head again. "What time are Caroline and Cassidy coming home?"

"School at ends at four, they should be here at five if they don't have clubs or sports," Miranda turned to the refrigerator to check the schedule. "Oh, they have soccer this afternoon."

"Can we go and watch?" Asher asked, a small smile blooming on his face. Miranda found herself smiling as well and nodded. She put a plate of coleslaw in front of Asher, along with roasted vegetables and the fried chicken. Asher started to pick at his food.

Miranda wondered what to do about a little boy who wilted every so slightly during meal times, even with fried chicken on the table.

* * *

The twins' faces lit up the minute they saw Miranda and Asher out on the field. Miranda tried to make the games as much as possible, adjusting Rouge's schedule to make sure she had Sundays off. To see her at practice was Christmas, their birthdays, and Miranda's birthday at once. The two of them ran to the bleachers, smiling. Caroline gave Asher a high five and he smiled, just a little bit. Cassidy gave her mom a one-armed hug.

"Hi Mom, Hi Asher!" Caroline greeted, her blush a combination of pleasure and effort. She mussed Asher's hair, who then gave her his most Miranda-like glare. "Mom, that glare is uncanny! You two are spending way too much time together."

Miranda covered her mouth to keep herself from laughing at her nephew. 

"Hey Asher, you want to drop by the bookstore after our soccer practice?" Cassidy asked. "They have some comics and toys there too." Asher nodded. "Is that okay, Mom?"

"We can all go together, I don't see why not."

The three kids cheered. "Yay!"

"Caroline, Cassidy!" The coach called out, hands akimbo. "Come on, chit-chat over!"

"Well, that seems rather harsh," Miranda murmured and Caroline gave her an "Are you kidding me?" look, shaking her head. Cassidy chuckled as she ran back.

Miranda and Asher took seats on the bleachers, Asher's legs swinging as they watched the soccer team run some drills on the field. "Did you play any sports back home, Asher?"

"Not really, just for PE."

"Do you want to try playing sports?" Miranda said, hoping she gave off an encouraging smile. "There are a lot of sports they play here at Dalton. Soccer, baseball, football..."

The boy shrugged at her. "I don't know."

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Miranda began, and she surprised herself. "Remember when we got out of the hospital and I went somewhere, twice? And you stayed home with Martha?" Asher only nodded and Miranda took it as a sign to continue. "Well, I went to a therapist. Do you know what a therapist is?" Asher shook his head. "It's someone you talk to, who helps you out, and who just wants to listen to you. And they don't tell anyone else."

"Like a secret?"

"Yes, like a secret."

"But what do I tell them?"

"Well, for me, I talk about food. And work. And sometimes, Caroline and Cassidy," Miranda offered. "When I went those two times, I talked about your mom."

"Can I talk to them about mom too?" Asher asked, in a small voice.

Miranda patted his hand, until he looked up at her. "Of course you can. Would you maybe want to talk to someone about your mom?"

"I think so." Asher put his head on one arm, for a moment. "And they won't tell you?"

"No, they won't tell me. Unless it's something serious."

"Like what?"

"Like you wanting to go back to Pennsylvania, maybe," Miranda answered. "I would need to know if you wanted to because you're still a kid, and I'm supposed to be taking care of you. You can't just decide those things on your own. But anything else, they can keep it a secret."

"I don't know if I want to go back home," Asher mused, swinging his legs again. "Without mom. Is it okay if we talk about something else? Or if I just watch them play soccer?"

Miranda nodded.

* * *

Without her knowing it, two weeks had passed by. The night before she was to return to Rouge, the four of them had dinner. "I'm coming back to work," Miranda announced. "Caroline, Cassidy, I expect you to be up early and to make sure Asher gets in to school. Same thing going home. Roy will take me to Rouge, then take you all to school, and then he'll fetch you in the afternoon, okay?" To Asher, she murmured, "Roy is our driver, he's been working with us for a while now."

"Can we drop by the restaurant some time?" 

"You work at a restaurant?" Asher asked.

"You thought she just liked to cook?" Cassidy asked right back.

"I don't know, moms cook," Asher replied, matter-of-factly.

"He's not wrong," Caroline said, amused. She turned to her cousin and smiled. "Yes, mom works at a restaurant. She's the head chef. So, can we drop by after school, mom?"

"We'll see," Miranda replied. "Now, finish your dinner and homework so you can go to bed early. I'll help Asher prepare for his first day in school."

"You'll love it," Caroline said enthusiastically. "Mom's restaurant makes a cake that's just six layers of chocolate. Ugh, so good." She sighed, happily, and Miranda shook her head at her eldest daughter. "I had it once with a coffee-horchata milkshake. So good."

She pretended to scoff. "All those Michelin stars and the only thing your kid remembers is cake."

"To be fair, it's really good chocolate cake, mom," Cassidy added. "The best."

"Can you make it here?" Asher inquired.

Miranda smirked at the challenge. "Can I? Of course I can, Mr. Asher."

The four of them enjoyed a lovely dinner, punctuated with Cassidy and Caroline's talks about future soccer matches, the courses that they were taking at Dalton, and even potential summer studies. Caroline talked about wanting to work at the restaurant, while Cassidy talked about a photography course she was thinking of taking. Before departing to their bedrooms, Asher stood up and hugged Caroline and Cassidy. He also surprised Miranda by giving her a full bear hug.

"Thank you for dinner," He mumbled and Miranda kissed the side of his forehead.

"You're welcome. Come on, let's pick out what you'll wear to school tomorrow."

* * *

_Monday_

Miranda had checked in on the three children before she left to go to Rouge. They were all up, dressed, and having breakfast. She brought her notebook with her, going over the week's menu. Nigel confirmed during their phone call the night before that the deliveries they were expecting were on time and that there were no changes to the menu they'd agreed upon. He'd also given her the heads up that Irv would likely push for her to take the rest of the two weeks off. 

She strode into Rouge purposefully, custom Prada chef's bag in hand. As she entered the kitchen, she could hear loud music being played on a phone, the entire kitchen watching a brunette carry a quail in hand while singing. "Here I am, Saint Valentine, my bags are packed, I'm first in line!" The brunette sang. If Miranda wasn't shocked and insulted, she would have been impressed. "Aphrodite, don't forget me. Romeo and Juliet me! Fly, dove! Sing, sparrow! Give me fat boy's famous arrow! Gimme, gimme that thing called love!" She sustained the last note for so long that Miranda wondered if she wasn't being pranked by some Broadway understudy wearing chef's clothing.

Miranda raised an eyebrow and everyone went back to work instantly. Emily gulped before turning back to her own station. The brunette, confused by the sudden lack of an audience to find herself face-to-face with Miranda, who decided to use the silence to size up the woman in front of her.

"Good morning, chef."

She peered at the brunette from her glasses, index finger touching her ear.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Andy Sachs," The brunette replied. "Andrea, but um, everybody calls me Andy."

"And what are you doing here?"

Andy smiled at her, amused. _The gall of this girl_. "I'm your new sous chef."

"I didn't agree to hiring a sous chef."

"You might want to talk to Mr. Ravitz about that, not me," Andy said, shrugging. "I couldn't pass up the opportunity. And might I just say, the world would be a dark and depressing place without your quail in truffle sauce." _Oh boy, no wonder she was singing along to Broadway musicals_. She shot Miranda what she probably thought was a winning smile. "It's an honor to be in your kitchen." She seemed to remember herself and added, "Chef. It's an honor to be here, chef."

"French-trained?"

"Italian, actually."

"Italian," Miranda repeated, flatly, as if Andy had licked bones straight out of a dumpster.

Irv entered the kitchen and the entire staff looked at the three of them. Irv was looking at Miranda, Miranda was looking at Irv, and Andy was looking at both of them, still with a quail in hand. "Put the quail down, Andrea," Miranda said. And so she did.

Miranda tilted her head to the side. "Irv."

"Good morning, Miranda," Irv replied. "I believe you met Ms. Sachs."

Miranda side-eyed Andy and nodded ever so slightly. "Yes. I'd like to speak to you about the menu, I think we have some adjustments to be made. Just a few minor touches."

Irv nodded and the two of them stepped out, quickly booting Nigel out of the cellar.

"Before you say anything, I need you to know one thing. She's good."

"Italian?" Miranda retorted. "You hire an Italian chef and I'm the one in therapy?"

"Miranda, give me some credit, I'm not a fucking idiot," Irv said, his forehead wrinkling. "She's a James Beard Rising Chef of the Year semifinalist, she came from Del Posto."

"Did she even win?"

"No, but that isn't the point, Miranda," Irv said, rolling his eyes. "The only person in your staff who is a James Beard Rising Chef of the Year semifinalist is Emily, and she's about to give birth! For Christ's sake, she's holding her crotch on one hand and a knife in the other. We would've needed a sous chef anyway!"

"When I agreed to this partnership, all I asked from you were two things: control over what goes on the menu and who goes into the kitchen. This is not what we agreed to."

"She was available, I had to move quickly," Irv hissed. "She was offered executive chef at the Peninsula. It was us or The Peninsula. I wouldn't be surprised if she has had offers outside of this state. Word has gotten around about her availability. We're lucky we even got her."

"Ah yes, the pleasure's mine," Miranda said, rolling her eyes. "If she's so highly coveted, then why did she choose to work with us over taking control of her own restaurant?"

"Because she wants to work with you," Irv said. "Miranda, there is a shortage of chefs of her caliber in New York. Emily is about to give birth in two months, maybe even less. Could you spare me a health code violation and just work with her? I don't care how you plan on dividing the work, but get it done." He was about to turn back and head out, but he looked back at her and added, "Maybe you should direct that ire at the Michelin reviewers and get that third star."

Miranda scoffed. "Fine. But this is the last time you're interfering with my kitchen."

Miranda stalked out and returned to the kitchen, where all the dishes from the menu were now served. Emily stood up at attention, as did the rest of the kitchen, as Miranda did her rounds, checking their mise en place and their prep work for the service later this evening. She then stopped at Emily's station, who walked her through the highlights of the service for the past two weeks and her discussions with the suppliers. The woman did look like she was almost dead on her feet and she had at least two weeks before she would go on maternity leave. Miranda would probably have to move her to sauces, with Serena, just so she can have a job where she could sit.

"Irv has informed me about Andrea," Miranda began, as the woman in question smiled at everyone. "It seems she's already made herself comfortable here." Only the slight inflection in her voice communicated her utter lack of joy at that development. "I am adjusting our assignments. Emily, I want you on sauces, with Serena. I assume you've briefed Andrea on my expectations?" Upon seeing Emily's nod, she continued. "I hope nothing has slipped during my absence."

"No, chef," The entire room replied.

"I'll find out soon enough, won't I?" She said softly, looking them in the eye.

She then turned to the brunette, who was standing there with a helpful smile. "Andrea, I want an amuse-bouche, one you've never created or served to anyone, even yourself, and one of every appetizer we serve on the menu by lunch, to be done on your own. Use only what is available in this kitchen."

"You want me to—"

The kitchen collectively inhaled at the challenge.

"If you don't have those plates before staff lunch," Miranda said, inclining her head. "Don't even bother joining us. That's all."

Andy only nodded.

The kitchen went back to its usual level of activity, and Miranda went back to tasting the dishes for the week's menu. That girl would learn soon enough. 

* * *

Emily, Serena, and Nigel watched as Andy started to plate with only 30 minutes left before staff lunch. The rest of the staff was busy cooking their staff lunch and preparing the table outside. Miranda was already in her seat, completing her daily crossword while drinking a cup of coffee.

"You think she's going to make it?" Serena asked, as Andy used her tweezers to add the garnish.

"Seems too close to call," Nigel commented, checking the number of plates. "That's everything?"

"Unless she drops a plate," Emily said, with a hint of glee. Serena gave her a look that said, 'Be nice,' and she turned back to the plates. "Fine, I hope she stays, whoopee."

"Shit!" Andy said, as her apron nearly caught on fire. "Shit, shit, shit!"

"There's that classy language I've come to know and love," Nigel remarked and Andy rolled her eyes at him.

He turned to Emily and put his head on his hand, keeping his wine glass balanced in the other. "You know, I wondered why you never even told Miranda that Irv had hired a sous chef. An Italian sous chef. Normally you would be running to the general with these things."

Serena turned to look at Emily, wondering exactly the same thing.

"You two have been friends for decades and you never said a thing, either." Emily replied. Serena continued to look at Emily. "She's passable. I'm pregnant. If Miranda didn't hire another sous chef, I may just end up giving birth in the kitchen. Don't tell her I said that."

"I think she's great."

"Oh, shut up, Serena."

"Why didn't you tell her, Nigel?" Serena asked the older man.

"I know when Fate's about to have fun with Miranda," Nigel said, taking a sip of wine. He brushed his fingers against his coat. "When that happens, I find it best to stay out of her way."

* * *

Miranda looked at her watch, as more of the staff spilled out into the tables.

 _Five, four, three, two_...

"Good morning, chef," She heard Andrea's chipper voice say, as the brunette wheeled out a tray. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nigel whispering to Irv. 

"What's this?"

"This," Andy said, as she uncovered a plate, "Is my amuse-bouche." She served the bowl in front of Miranda, its edges akin to a boat. 

Miranda watched as she uncovered every other dish. Nothing out of place. "And these are all of the seven appetizers on the menu."

Miranda looked at the bowl in front of her. Three small white spheres, surrounded by a foam and a soup, with microgreens and oil dotting the plate. 

"That is a shrimp and crab cake pearl," Andy said, pointing to the sphere. "Inside is a fresh sea urchin nugget. Outside of the pearl is a pea and potato soup and a vadouvan foam, with select microgreens and a dash of lemongrass oil. I would pair it with the Château L'Ermitage 2018 Epicuria White."

Nigel looked up at her and nodded at Miranda, unable to hide his delight.

Everyone watched as she took at bite of Andrea's amuse-bouche. She then took a bite of every other appetizer than Andy served. She looked up at Nigel and nodded ever so slightly, just once. The kitchen brigade then looked at each other and tried to hide their smiles. And their relief, probably.

 _Good, she would live to see another day,_ they seemed to think _._

"Eat," Miranda said, gesturing the chefs and the staff to take the rest of the plates. 

Emily and Serena passed the plates around. Irv took a bottle from the cellar and started asking the wait staff to describe the wine, while Andy made her way to the chair on the opposite side of the table. "So, did she like it?" Andy asked Irv, who was standing just next to her.

He nodded and clapped her shoulder. "You did alright, kid."

Andy looked back at Miranda, with a curious smile.

Miranda looked at her dead in the eye and held the newspaper up in front of her face.


	4. The First Service

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda and Andy go through their first service together.

Nigel peeked his head into the kitchen as the doors to the front of the house opened. “Alright, people, gird your loins!” He was rewarded by the sounds of knives chopping furiously, pots and pans starting to sizzle, and Miranda giving him a nod. 

The symphony had begun. 

Miranda and Andy moved around each other with the familiarity of a master and apprentice. To the untrained eye, it was a carefully choreographed dance. One would finish off the foie gras while the other would assemble a pile of greens. One would assemble a Wellington and finish it just as the other sent off a roasted branzino. Emily would call out an order for a green tower and get said tower (a light, intentionally tottering tower of homemade crisps, peppers, spinach, and goat cheese, which required some ridiculous balancing skills from their servers) in two minutes, waiting for Miranda to dress it. 

The worst part was neither woman even noticed how well they were already working. The appetizers and the first few mains were flying out of the kitchen. 

Serena turned to Emily, who was watching the two chefs with a mixture of envy and glee. She thought her colleague would never stop worshipping the ground her mentor walked on. “I’m not the only one who finds that odd, right, querida?” Serena asked. “That’s unreal.”

“It took me three years of working with Miranda before we could be that in sync,” Emily said, gritting her teeth just a little bit. “How on earth is she doing this? Are we sure she’s not French-trained at all? Look at them!”

The kitchen would sneak glances at Miranda and Andy every so often, a chef or two tilting their heads at the counters in front. _Look at these two_ , their wide eyes would say. _Could you believe them?_ “Table nine, two Autumn Leaves, one scallop, one Wellington,” Miranda called out. 

“Yes, chef!”

After the first hour, Andy started playing music. Jamie Cullum’s voice serenaded the kitchen and she started dancing, swaying her hips as she chopped up vegetables and plated dishes. Miranda moved around her, gliding as she went, moving around the kitchen to taste, to check on temperatures, and for tonight, to help Jocelyn out with the desserts. The rest of the brigade, figuring out that their two chefs had found a rhythm, fell in step with their leaders.

As Andy was plating an amuse-bouche, she felt eyes on her. When she looked up, true enough, Miranda was eyeing her plate rather intently. 

She’d edited her amuse-bouche that same afternoon, at Miranda’s rather clipped feedback. 

_“What part of amuse-bouche is confusing to you, Andrea?”_

_“Nothing, chef.”_

_“Make it bite-sized.” Miranda said, looking down on her plate. “One bite.”_

As Andy was about to place her sphere, Miranda bent down and a forelock of her hair broke free from her chef’s hat. Andy wanted so badly to brush it from her face. It was undeniably sexy. More so when Miranda brushed it off, her lips pursing ever so slightly at the distraction. She circled Andy, their hands barely brushing each other. Andy imagined she could feel the heat from Miranda’s body, but it could’ve been just the kitchen.

Andy shook her head and ended up dropping the sphere, the entire nugget falling apart, and heard a soft “Oof!” in the background. 

“Enough of the peanut gallery,” Miranda commented, her eyes scanning the room. “Where are we on table ten and eleven?” A few murmurs called out the status of the dishes. 

She turned back to Andy and said, “Again.”

Andy circled around and tried from another angle. “I just need some space,” She huffed. 

“Are you complaining about the size of the kitchen, Andrea?”

Miranda watched as Andy took a deep breath. “No, chef.”

“Good.” 

Miranda walked away, her lips curving upward. 

Dan strode into the room after Christine was sent out with the amuse-bouche Andy had finally finished.

Miranda looked at him, taking in his slightly clammy palms. “Sam Sifton’s here.”

Andy and Emily took deep breaths. The music from Andy’s phone stopped immediately. 

“He wants one Green Tower, one steak, one branzino, and one of the dacquoise.”

“Emily, take care of the steak with Paul, Andrea, I want you on the branzino with Serena and Claire, and Jocelyn, take care of the dacquoise,” Miranda ordered. “Now.”

An hour later, Sam Sifton’s dishes were already out and word from the front of the house was that he was enjoying a dessert wine. Christine entered and leaned against the wall, sighing deeply. Dan entered just a few moments later, grinning at his colleague and at the rest of the kitchen. “So, what’s going on outside?” Emily started, before Miranda could even speak.

“He’s talking to Irv now. It seems like he enjoyed everything he ordered, but he also has the best poker face out of everyone I’ve seen, so it’s a bit up in the air, if you ask me.”

Miranda rolled her eyes. “Enlightening.”

A minute later, Irv entered the room, and the kitchen scattered like cockroaches. He shook his head and went up to Miranda, who was directing Jocelyn on plating one of the final desserts of the evening. “Miranda, Sam wants to speak to you.”

“Chefs belong in the kitchen,” Miranda murmured, nodding at the angle of Jocelyn’s splatter. 

“You and Andy,” Irv continued. “If you don’t go out, I’ll send Andy out alone.”

“Mr. Ravitz, I don’t think I should be getting in the middle of this,” Andy said, as she started cleaning up her counter. “It’s not my kitchen.”

“Miranda?”

Miranda sighed and nodded at Jocelyn, who sent the plate up with Dan. “Fine.”

“Miranda, always a pleasure,” Sam greeted, as Irv escorted them to his table. “And Andy, what a surprise. I thought for sure that you were going to take over the executive chef post at the Peninsula.” He turned to Miranda. “I didn’t even know Rouge was in the running until Mario told me, of course. You and Irv make for a sly pair, don’t you, Miranda?”

“Miranda wants the best and well, I just help make it possible,” Irv said, his chest puffing up with pride. 

Miranda smiled thinly and Andy grimaced. Andy watched as Miranda school her features into a mix of civility, elegance, and just enough warmth to seem kind to Sam. “How was your dinner?”

“Inspired,” Sam crowed, in obvious pleasure. “Everything was delightful. I was taken from fall to a winter wonderland. It truly was a magical experience. Thank you, Miranda.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Also, might I add—a French-trained and an Italian-trained chef working together?” Sam added, chortling slightly. “Might be Irv’s boldest move yet. After hiring you, of course. If it’s an experiment, it’s certainly working.”

Irv grinned widely. “And we’re glad that it is, aren’t we, Miranda?”

Miranda only nodded and smiled politely. 

“Thank you for dining with us, Sam,” Miranda said, shaking his hand. “Always a pleasure to have you with us here at Rouge.” Andy shook his hand as well. “If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to wrap up our service for this evening. I’m sure you and Irv would have more things to talk about.”

Sam smiled and Irv nodded as the two of them walked back to the kitchen. The second she was out of earshot, Miranda sighed softly, as if all of her exhaustion was just a rolling boil. She then looked up to the brigade and smiled. Andy looked at her as she did and found it quite charming, how Miranda’s blue eyes radiated warmth once the curves of her lips went up. Meanwhile, the entire kitchen cheered. 

“Thank you for a good evening, everyone.” Miranda said. Emily grinned at her. 

“Andy, would you like to grab a drink?” Serena whispered, as the kitchen started cleaning up. The last of the patrons, along with Sam, had finally exited, which meant that they could start packing up and preparing to leave. “Celebrate your first service with Miranda.”

“I’m good,” Andy replied. “You guys go on ahead. I still have to drive home.”

The brigade cleaned up pretty quickly, and Emily was one of the first to go home, followed by Paul, Jaime, and the commis chefs. Serena and Jocelyn had briefly convened and decided to go home together, leaving only Irv, Miranda, Nigel, and Andy in the building. 

“Congratulations on the service, it went smoothly, I hear,” Nigel said. Irv and Miranda were just outside the door, discussing something intently. “She seemed pleased enough.”

“Nigel, she hates me,” Andy observed. Irv nodded and the two of them said their goodbyes, Miranda walking to her office. “I know I’m not her first choice, but I’m not chopped liver.”

“It’s not personal. Every chef who works their way up at Rouge has to go through The Trials,” Nigel explained, apropos of nothing. “That’s not it’s official name, mind you. It’s just what we’ve come to call it. It’s how she knows that you have enough in you to keep up with her.”

“What is this, Hercules’ Twelve Labours?”

“Something like that,” Nigel replied. “No two Trials are the same, and her opinion is the only one that matters. One time, she flew one of the commis chefs to Bangkok and gave him two hours to run and get all the produce he needed to cook her a three-course meal.”

“Okay...”

“Straight off the plane.”

“Oh.”

“When it comes to The Trials, there are no rules,” Nigel said. 

“And Irv’s okay with this?”

“How could he not be?” Nigel replied. “Every chef who walks in here and trains with Miranda leaves to become the executive chef at another place, a sous chef at a three-Michelin star restaurant, or even owning their own restaurant. Multiple awards. Recognized across this state and across America as some of the best young chefs in the country. He gets nominated restaurateur of the year.”

Andy laid her head on her arms, which were on the counter, and looked up at Nigel. 

“So the amuse-bouche was the first test?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the second?”

Nigel’s lips quirked in amusement. “Didn’t you realize? It was tonight. Congratulations, you passed.” He smiled at her and she grinned back. “You’re moving forward, Andy.”

He patted her on the back and took his leave. 

* * *

She decided to turn to Miranda’s office to get some feedback on tonight’s service. She was about to knock on the door when she heard Miranda murmuring over the phone. “Hello, bobbsie. Mommy’s just about to leave the restaurant,” Miranda said, her voice soft and tender. “How was school? Did Martha prepare a good dinner for you three?”

Andy heard a soft intake of breath, followed by papers being rustled. She moved a few steps away from the door so she can pretend that she just got out of the kitchen. 

Miranda was out the door quickly, and when Andy turned around, her chef’s jacket was off, leaving her in a maroon boatneck top, exposing her slender collarbone. A sliver of moonbeam entered the narrow hallway, the light turning Miranda into a more romantic figure. 

Andy hoped she wasn’t blushing. 

She seemed surprised to see Andy and looked behind her. Andy looked back and smiled helpfully. “They’ve all left. Do you need a ride, chef?”

Miranda briefly contemplated calling Roy but thought that the half hour trip to the restaurant alone would not be worth it. She nodded at Andrea and turned the lights off in her office. The two of them walked side by side, in silence, as the lights went down in the restaurant. They caught Carl, one of the kitchen staff, turning off the last of the lights in the scullery. 

He gave both of them a wave as they walked out, into the garage, before stopping in front of an orange pick-up truck. “We’ve been together for five years, but I’ve taken good care of her,” Andy said, tapping the roof fondly. She then opened the door for Miranda. “After you, chef.”

Miranda looked around the interior of the truck, seeing a small box on the seat behind. Nothing was sticky. No crumbs on the floor. Leather seats that look like they’ve been taken cared of. It was pleasant enough, at least for a brief ride. Andy closed the door for her and quickly made her way to the other side. She tilted her head towards the radio. “Would you mind if I played music?”

“You already do,” Miranda said drolly. “At the restaurant.”

Andy lightly scratched the back of her neck. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just my style. I’m not playing rock or anything, I just prefer some jazz and showtunes to stay calm and relaxed.”

Miranda waved her off, as if to say, “Do what you will.” Andy hooked her phone to the truck’s Bluetooth and started the car, as smooth jazz played in the background. “Where to?”

“I live only a few blocks from here. When you exit, turn right, and then go straight. When we come to the first stoplight, turn left,” Miranda began, and Andy backed out of the restaurant’s garage and onto the road. She followed Miranda’s instructions precisely, turning when she was asked to. There was a bit of traffic, even late this evening, making just a simple trip five blocks away a thirty minute one. Andy chanced a glance at her passenger every so often. The wrinkle in Miranda’s eyes spelled worry and anxiety. Was she worried about what Sam would write? 

The rest of the ride passed by quickly and in silence. 

When Andy pulled over outside Miranda’s house, a lone cry could be heard even from outside the door. Andy quickly turned the ignition off, casting a worried glance to Miranda, who looked stricken now. Miranda retrieved her keys and ran up the steps to her brownstone, opening the door. Andy followed her but stopped just inside the front door, looking up at the noise. When she looked at the passenger seat, Miranda had left her chef’s bag and her jacket on top of it. 

She got both items and stepped out, locking her truck and following Miranda into the townhouse. She closed the door behind her as she heard footsteps moving up, quickly. 

_What was going on in this house?_

“Who are you?” Caroline asked, peering down from the banister at the stranger. 

Andy looked up. She then realized that she had likely intruded on something private. 

“I’m sorry for barging in. I heard the cry and thought she might need some help. She left this inside the truck, too,” Andy responded, holding up the chef’s bag and the jacket. “I’m Andy. I’m a sous chef at Rouge. I just brought Miranda home.”

“What happened to Emily?”

“She’s still there, I’m just an additional sous chef.” 

“Car, who are you—” Cassidy said, before looking at the same spot as her sister. “Oh, hi.”

“Hi.”

“She’s Andy, she’s a sous chef at Rouge,” Caroline explained. “Along with Emily.”

“Oh. I’m Cassidy,” She introduced. 

“I’m starting to think I shouldn’t be here,” Andy muttered, before the three of them heard another round of crying.

The cries pierced through Andy’s heart and she found herself welling up. When she looked up, the two redheads had just finished murmuring to each other. They looked just as uncertain as Andy felt. Andy could walk away, put this behind her and out of her mind, but her feet couldn’t move. She felt rooted. She was needed here, somehow. 

Miranda stepped out of the bedroom, Asher wrapped around her. The twins looked at their mother and their cousin, the latter tear-filled and terrified and walked up to them. Asher did not look at either Caroline or Cassidy. 

“Caroline, Cassidy,” Miranda murmured softly. “I’m sorry we woke you, go back to bed.”

“Someone from work’s downstairs, she said she took you home?” Cassidy replied. 

“What?” Miranda said, shaking her head slightly. “Oh yes, Andrea.”

“She said she came in because she thought you might’ve needed help and you left your things in her truck.” Caroline added. Caroline reached out to Asher, offering to hold his hand, but Asher burrowed deeper behind Miranda. “Asher, do you want anything? You know you can tell Mom.”

“A glass of warm milk,” Asher mumbled from behind Miranda. “Please.” 

“Asher, do you want us to go with you downstairs?” Cassidy asked, with a small smile. Asher looked up at Miranda then back at them, before nodding. “Alright, come on.”

“Can you go with Caroline and Cassidy? I’ll just get settled.” Asher nodded.

Miranda walked to the banister and leaned over at Andy, who was looking down, still confused. “Andrea?”

“Yes, chef?”

“Please put my chef’s bag and jacket in the kitchen,” Miranda called out. “And while you’re there, do you mind boiling some milk and cinnamon on the stove?”

“No, chef,” Andy said quickly. “I can do that.”

“Go on,” Miranda said to the three children. “It’s okay. I’ll be down in a minute.”

Caroline, Cassidy, and Asher went downstairs, turned on the lights, and found the brunette waiting for them expectantly. Andy took note of the little boy almost squished in between the two young teenagers and his tear-streaked face. She smiled at the three children, hoping to communicate to them that she didn’t mean any harm and was only there to help. “Hi,” Andy said, offering a small wave. “I’m Andy. I work with Miranda at the restaurant. What’s your name?” She looked up and nodded at the two young women. 

“I’m Asher,” The young boy said, in a small voice. 

“Hi, Asher,” Andy replied, with a smile. “Can you show me where the kitchen is?”

“It’s this way,” Caroline interjected smoothly, pointing to the right. She put an arm around Asher’s shoulder as the four of them walked into the kitchen. 

Andy deposited Miranda’s chef’s bag and jacket on a counter and headed to the refrigerator to grab the milk, while Caroline pulled out a pan and a pack of cinnamon sticks from the cupboard. Caroline watched as Andy toasted the cinnamon slightly before adding in the milk. Caroline pulled out a small jar of vanilla paste and a teaspoon and handed it to Andy, who gave her a small smile. Andy then proceeded to mix in a teaspoon of the vanilla into the milk, the kitchen now increasingly smelling of warm cinnamon and vanilla. Cassidy and Asher laid their heads on their arms as they waited for the beverage to warm up sufficiently. 

“Sugar?” She asked the three kids and the three of them all shook their heads.

When Miranda entered the kitchen, there were three children each holding a mug of warm cinnamon milk. Andrea was cleaning up the pot and spoon she used, and it was as if nothing happened. The milk, pack of cinnamon sticks, and vanilla paste had since been returned to their rightful places. Miranda nodded at her when their eyes met. 

“Do you want tea, chef?” Andy asked. “There’s still a bit of milk left too.”

“I’ll have the milk.” 

Andy poured her a cup and a satisfied hum left her lips after a small sip. Andy found herself entranced by the milk moustache on Miranda’s lips. The three children noticed it too and Asher had a small grin, pointing it out at the silver-haired woman. “Auntie Mira, you got one too!”

A fit of giggles broke out among the three children and Andy chuckled. Miranda looked at the three kids and tried to glare at them, but that only served to make them giggle even harder. Andy watched as her eyes softened, her fondness for all three children apparent. 

“Not a word to anyone in the kitchen,” Miranda said to Andy with a straight face. 

“I can’t take you seriously looking like that, chef,” Andy replied. She reached for a napkin and offered it to her boss, who wiped her mouth daintily. “Much better.”

“Thank you for making the milk,” Miranda said, and Andy was greeted by an echo of “Thank you,” from the three children. “Girls, Asher, say good night to Andrea. We can’t keep her up too late, we both have work tomorrow.”

“Good night,” Cassidy said, waving at Andy. “Thank you for the milk.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Andy,” Caroline added. “Good night.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Thank you, Andy,” Asher said, rubbing his hand over both eyes. “Good night.”

Andy mussed his hair and opened her arms for a hug, which Asher returned, albeit sleepily “Good night, kid. Sweet dreams.” She then looked up at Miranda, who looked slightly surprised at their interaction. “I should go ahead, chef. Good night.”

She walked away before Miranda could utter another word. The last thing Miranda heard before she went up was the sound of a truck pulling away from her street.

That night, Andy dreamt about that kitchen, and what it would be like to serve breakfast for Miranda Priestly and three children. 

* * *

Two weeks after their first service together, Andy caught brunch with her friends Doug and Lily at P.J. Clarke’s. Andy was lucky that Rouge was closed on Sundays—Miranda apparently had been firm about no service on Sundays to make sure that everyone could get at least a day of rest. Rumors had it that the change happened after Miranda’s second divorce from this hotshot executive guy at a consulting firm, who was instrumental to Miranda making continued smart decisions, business-wise, but who was also, according to the New York City culinary rumor mill, kind of a whiny asshole who didn’t realize that he was married to one of the best chefs in the world and who cheated on her with a socialite friend from Miranda’s circle.

“Hey Andy,” Lily greeted her, giving her a tight hug. “How are you?”

She exchanged cheek kisses with Doug, who asked, “How is it working with Miranda Priestly?”

The three of them slid into a booth as a server poured water for all of them. 

“It’s good. It’s been a wild ride so far,” Andy said. “She’s already served my amuse-bouche!”

“No,” Doug said. “Do you know the last person who managed that? Emily Charlton!”

“I’m working with her,” Andy replied. “Between you and me, she’s kind of standoffish. I’d take it personally, but she can be kind of a sweetheart, to be honest. Sometimes I think the kitchen’s as scared of her as they are of Miranda. They’ve been working together for so long.”

“Well, she practically snatched Emily from Paris after she graduated,” Doug commented. Lily stared at Doug, shocked. “A girl finishes with awards from Institut Paul Bocuse, of course someone’s going to notice. I heard Anne-Sophie Pic was planning on taking her on as an apprentice but Miranda was apparently quicker.”

" _How_ do you know these things?” Lily asked. “You work at an investment bank!”

She perused the menu, deciding that a pretty decadent lunch was in order. 

“And you’re working with Nigel Kipling, too,” Doug continued, as if Andy had interrupted a monologue. “Only one of the finest sommeliers in the country. They say the man just needs half a sniff to tell you where it comes from and who made the wine. Is that true?”

Andy laughed. “If it is, I haven’t seen it in action yet.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think _you_ worked at Rouge.”

“Are you ready to order?” Their server asked, and they all nodded. 

“I’ll have the Wild Ahi Tuna Tacos, the Baby Arugula salad, the Slow Cooked Baby Back Ribs, Crispy Brussels Sprouts, and The Black Rose,” Andy said. 

“I’ll have the East Coast Oysters and the Jumbo Lobster Roll,” Lily said. “And a French 75.”

“Love that,” Doug muttered. “I’ll have Fat Joe’s Fancy Burger and a Moscow Mule.” The server walked away. “So, Andy, spill, how is it working with your culinary idol?”

“Slash girl crush slash hall pass,” Lily teased. 

The two of them giggled as Andy shushed them both. “Hey! We’re in public.” 

“Please, no one at P.J. Clarke’s is going to rat you out,” Doug said, waving her off. “So?”

“I’m pretty sure she didn’t know I got hired until she came back to work, so she hates me, but service has been good so far so I don’t think she can complain too much,” Andy shared. “We had a pretty important guest on our first service together. Guess who?”

“Who?”

“Sam Sifton.”

Doug gasped. 

“Should I be gasping too?” Lily asked, tentatively. “I could fake one, but it wouldn’t be good.”

“Nah, Lils, you’re good,” Andy said, patting her hand. “It’s not your fault Dougie here is basically the Perez Hilton of the culinary industry. He enjoyed his meal, everyone seemed happy. And then after the service, I ended up giving Miranda a ride home and—”

“Hold up,” Lily cut her off. “You’re not rushing through this one, baby. You gave her a ride home? Isn’t she chauffeured or something? You know that woman probably has a driver on speed dial.”

“Yes, but that night she didn’t, so I ended up giving her a ride home. Her nephew was crying and it seemed like he had a nightmare so she asked me to make some cinnamon milk for him. She drank some too,” Andy grinned, her mind already back at the scene. “She had a cute milk moustache. So I made her some milk and said goodbye and she hasn’t talked to me since.”

Their server returned their starters and drinks, which bought Andy some time. She downed at least a third of her drink, suddenly finding it far more interesting. 

“As in at all?” 

“I mean, we talk at work,” Andy explained. “If by talk, you mean she gives me orders. She took a knife to the menu once, sliced it and then gave me the lower half. The lesser half.”

“Because she’s your boss,” Doug offered. 

“Yeah, but it was a personal moment, you know?” Andy asked. “How do you go from giving someone a peek at your personal life to acting like I’m just another gopher?”

“Andy, you’re not saying—” Doug halted. “You’re not just crushing on her anymore, aren’t you?”

“Uh...”

Doug and Lily looked at each other, eyes wide, before turning to Andy. 

“Sweetie,” Lily started again, holding both of Andy’s hands in hers. “She’s your boss.”

“Your hot, rich, not to mention ridiculously talented boss,” Doug said, sipping his Moscow Mule. “I don’t know, it would be a conundrum for me, and I’m gay.”

Lily slapped his arm. “Stop enabling her!”

Andy dropped her head into her arms, dramatically, deflating like a tube man running out of air. She mumbled something that neither of her friends caught. “What’s that?” 

“Why didn’t I just work for Dominique Crenn?”

“I don’t know Andy, with your track record, you’d probably crush on her too,” Doug said. He rubbed his chin slightly. “You might have a better shot, at least you know she plays for your team. Then again, your main competition is Maria Bello.”

“Doug, zip it.”

Doug held his hands up. “It’s not my fault Andy apparently likes cougars.”

“Oh my God, I can’t with you, just shush for one second, please.” Lily said. “Andy, is this still a schoolgirl crush that’s just getting amplified because you’re working together or are you seriously considering going after Miranda Priestly?”

Andy looked at her childhood friend from her spot on the table and sighed. “Is it okay if I tell you that the answer to your question is literally I don’t know?”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Andy mumbled. “I just want to eat.”

“We should hook you up with someone, get you out of this Miranda laser beam hyperfocus thing you have going on,” Lily offered and Andy groaned. “Come on, you gotta let me and Dougie find someone that you can at least have a nice meal with. No creepy guys, promise.”

“Can it just be ‘no guys,’ period?” Andy said, words muffled by an arm. 

“You got it.”

“I’m so in trouble.” 

“Only if we do it right,” Lily replied, and Andy let out a loud laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jamie Cullum song Andy plays during their first service is his cover of "I Get A Kick Out Of You". Should I make a playlist? I feel like I should make a playlist. Comment below if you want one!


	5. Made to Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The entire staff at Rouge get some much-awaited news. Andy spends some time with the Priestlys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant mentioned here, Jack's Wife Freda, is a real restaurant in New York (where I've set Rouge and this story in). The menu items are real and yes, the owner's name is Dean, but he's obviously fictionalized. 
> 
> Apologies for a long wait in between chapters. I've written up an outline for this entire story, but it was at this point that my intuition started to fight with my own outline and take this story into a slightly different direction than how I intended it to go. It's definitely ending up in the same place, it's just the how that I need to work out. I think part of it is the fact that this is easily the longest fic I've written to date, so my brain is getting used to the marathon. I'll work on keeping it moving so I can give you more regular updates.

Nothing happened in the weeks since Sam Sifton visited Rouge, which worried the entire staff more than it did Miranda. The man ate at three restaurants at most, in a day, maybe two if he was going to do full tasting menus. Miranda was not worried. Save for one year where he downgraded Rouge from three stars to two (second divorce), Rouge has always held three stars with the New York Times. Miranda knew Irv hoped that she’d get that third Michelin star and that fourth star with the New York Times. She was constantly working towards it, but some days, the grind of working at a kitchen exhausted her. The early days, the long hours, most of it without the children. It could be a pain sometimes, and today was one of those days. 

In the first five years after her girls were born, she took a break. She wrote cookbooks, made some appearances on TV doing interviews, and even started a short-lived line of kitchenware. Had she continued down that road, she would’ve had a headstart on her peers.

At one point, she was in talks to do a cooking show, but Richard had not wanted to leave New York for California. She suspected that he did not want to leave the comforts that came with his family name in New York, but she soon learned that he did not want to leave the women he’d somehow managed to seduce and the men who looked away while he did it. She’d been made to play housewife while he gallivanted around the Upper East and West sides, and in the end, he ended up paying for it. On his family money, she built her own empire.

She wondered what her life would be like once she got her third star. Would she continue keeping it? Or would she want to do something else? The second question caught her many a time in the past few years. She had a third child to think about now, a child she wanted to give her time to, and she wanted to give more time and attention to Caroline and Cassidy now that they were about to enter high school. She’d blinked and there they were. Teenagers.

The door to the walk-in cold storage room opened. “Chef, are you alright?”

From outside, she could hear the sounds of jazz, but it was smoother, calmer, not unlike the staccato and the pitter-patter, the fast tempo she’d gotten used to. “I am. Thank you, Serena.”

“Andy told me to come get you, she said we shouldn’t let you freeze before she got the secret to your saffron sauce,” Serena explained. At Miranda’s raised eyebrow, she added, “You’ve been in there for half an hour, chef, I think we were all getting worried.”

Miranda only smiled wanly. “Don’t worry about me, I just needed to think.”

Andrea was writing down on a notebook while looking at the week’s menu. The Valentine’s week menu was always a doozy and Miranda couldn’t blame her if she wanted to get more organized. A lesser chef would commit the recipes to memory and think nothing of it, practicing dishes. The best chefs, Miranda has found, treat every single moment as if it were a symphony.

Miranda started fielding questions from the rest of the kitchen, but every so often, her eyes would find Andrea. Andrea, chopping onions into a brunoise. Andrea, conferring with Paul on the grilled seabass. Andrea, crushing the pastry for the deconstructed vol-au-vent gleefully. She seemed to be everywhere, but never was she in the same station as Miranda.

“Chef, chef!” Dan called out, clutching a copy of the paper. “It’s here. Review’s here!”

Stoves and ovens were turned off, knives were wiped and laid down, and the entire kitchen gathered around Dan as he laid the newspaper on the counter. Nigel and Irv half ran, half walked into the kitchen and stood next to her. Miranda produced her glasses from a pocket and had just perched them on her nose. She started scanning the first few words silently, and when it became obvious to everyone that she wasn’t going to read them out loud, Andy sidled up next to her and started reading Sam’s review to the kitchen.

_Rouge_

_By Sam Sifton_

_In New York, where the culinary scene is a knifefight and restaurants live and die—sometimes with only a whisper to usher them in and out of the scene—there are about a handful of people who have survived the decades, the trenches, the one-hit wonders, the fads._

_Boulud. Keller. Barber. Priestly._

_Rouge is an unassuming, rather quiet culinary institution. Its interiors speak to a calm, minimalist, peaceful bistro, perhaps one that played jazz and the standards late into the evening, not a commune of culinary minds who seem to want nothing but to delight, indulge, and excite. Much has been written about the legend of Miranda Priestly, but not nearly enough has been written about Rouge, which takes Priestly’s French training, sets it off with a rocket, and explodes like fireworks plate after plate after plate._

_“I can’t stand this purple prose,” Emily sighed. “Still nothing about the food.”_

_The most fascinating thing about Priestly and Rouge is that while they were expected to toe the line drawn by the haute cuisine that birthed them, nothing about Priestly or Rouge is what is expected of French cuisine. To start, there is no rigid multi-course tasting menu. It is perhaps one of the more accessible two Michelin star restaurants in the city, if not the state._

_It is another world, another universe entirely._

_At Rouge, Priestly serves branzino smoked on applewood and coconut hulls, with a ginger, wasabi, Thai basil, and finger lime sauce. The fish is caramelized perfectly, the sauce adding a new level of unctuousness. From my seat at a restaurant in New York, I am instantly transported to beaches in Phuket, Bali, and Palawan. This is a wisp of a tropical paradise._

_She leaps from that to a classic steak, aged for 75 days, with an array of side dishes it could make your head spin. A potato rosti, a small disc barely the size of a hockey puck, golden brown and crisp on the outside, breaking open to reveal a sour cream center. Curried roasted orange and purple sweet potatoes, mashed into submission to form an airy, fluffy pillow, with a gravy so complex there must be a hundred ingredients in there, finished off with a splash of yuzu. “Not a hundred,” Serena tittered. “Only twenty-five.” The entire kitchen chuckled._

_Crispy brussels sprouts tossed with shaved garlic and red cow parmesan. A shaved vegetable slaw with delicate layers of carrots, zucchini, squash, corn, and at some point, even seaweed. Every element on the plate is technically precise. One would think that programmed androids were working in the kitchen, the cuts on the produce surgical, almost textbook._

_In this updated menu, Priestly showcases not only her passion for excellence and mastery, but also a playfulness, an ebullience that has not been associated with her work. I got the dacquoise during my visit, and I was amazed to find that the normally elegant, refined, and precise Priestly had allowed a Pollock-like sauce of chocolate and beetroot to punctuate the dish. And punctuate it did. It was an ode to winter flavors and to children playing on a snow day._

_Rouge has always enjoyed work from some of the country’s most promising chefs. Priestly’s partnership with apprentice Emily Charlton has delighted critics from across the country and even from outside of the US, and restaurateur Irv Ravitz has bolstered that combination with James Beard Rising Chef of the Year semifinalist Andrea Sachs, previously from Del Posto. Priestly and Sachs seem to enjoy just as easy and smooth sailing a partnership as Priestly and Charlton do, if my dinner at Rouge is anything to go by._

_Critics in this country believe that Priestly is a chef who should be given more credit. Equally talented as her more accomplished (and more public) peers, a pioneer for younger female chefs, the quiet captain of Rouge has done nothing but paint pictures, scenes, moments in time through her food. On my latest visit, I have to agree with my fellow critics. New York has a master at work and one would do well to set a reservation._

“Four stars,” Miranda read quietly, and the entire kitchen exploded.

Emily had let out an uncharacteristic whoop in front of everyone, which prompted the rest of the kitchen to start looking for drinks. Nigel and Irv ran out to get bottles of champagne and Paul and Emily went to get glasses for everyone. Andrea turned to her with the widest smile she had ever seen on anyone, wrapped her arms around her and twirled her around.

“You did it, chef, you did it!” She crowed in glee.

Miranda almost smiled until Andrea realized exactly whose body her arms were wrapped around and set Miranda down gently, the two of them letting go of each other.

Nigel and Serena looked at each other after seeing the display and conversed only with their eyes. Andrea was incarnadine and she looked like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

_Are you seeing what I’m seeing?_

_Yes. Very ebullient, our Andy, ‘no?_

_Well, that’s the word._

_You think she’s going to mind?_

_I think she’s going to pretend it did not happen._

Andy took a champagne flute and downed it, blushing. Nigel raised an eyebrow. He then bumped Serena a little and handed Miranda a champagne flute of her own. Miranda’s hand trembled so slightly upon taking it. Nigel gave her a friendly smile and clinked her glass. “Congratulations, Miranda, definitely well-deserved,” He said. “How are you celebrating?”

“We have service this evening,” Miranda said, tightening her apron. At Nigel’s “Be serious,” look, she softly commented, “I think an outing with the children would be nice, over the weekend.”

“How is my nephew?”

“He’s adjusting. I think the sessions with the therapist have been helping him get used to this new normal,” Miranda replied. “But he misses her so terribly and he has nightmares.”

“Has he gotten friends at Dalton?”

“Not yet. He keeps to himself,” Miranda murmured. “The only person I’ve seen him smile at the way he does with my girls is Andrea.” Her lips then formed into a firm, thin line.

Nigel nodded. “I wasn’t trying to pry, Miranda.”

“No, I know,” Miranda said, shaking her head. “You’ve been kind, Nigel. But this is work.” She called out to Andrea, who was currently engaged in a conversation with Paul and gesturing wildly, her arms making a whisking motion. “Andrea?”

“Yes, chef.”

“Since you’ve decided to bring your exuberance into this kitchen,” Miranda declared. “I believe you have enough energy to make the main course for family meal for the next week.”

Nigel had seen many different expressions from chefs going through the Trials but never had he seen confusion turn so quickly into outright acceptance. “Alright, chef. Consider it done.”

“I have only one condition,” Miranda said. At that, everyone turned to the two of them. Andy cocked her head to the right, waiting for the gauntlet. “No Italian.”

Andy drew herself to her full height and nodded.

“I don’t want to interrupt this standoff you have going on,” Emily said, a little shrill. “But I think someone decided to make their entrance early.”

“Nigel, call Benjamin, tell him he’s meeting his daughter early,” Miranda ordered, and Nigel immediately pulled his phone out. “Andrea, get your truck. Now.” Andy dashed off, key already in hand, to the parking lot. “This kitchen reports to Paul and Serena until we both get back.”

* * *

Miranda quickly ran off to her office and then to the parking lot with Emily. When they got outside, Andy already had the door to the backseat open. Miranda sat next to Emily as Andy quickly closed the doors and started to drive. “Em, do you have a hospital? Where to?”

“Presbyterian, Dr. Chisolm is our OB,” Emily huffed out. “She was supposed to arrive on time!”

“I’m here, Emily,” Miranda said, rather imperiously, considering the circumstances. “And I’ve given birth to twins. You have got to calm down. We are not getting into an accident.”

Emily squeaked and then kept quiet. Andy looked up at the rearview mirror, her eyebrows raised in thought. Miranda then pulled out her phone and started talking to someone. “Benjamin, this is Miranda Priestly. Make sure you have bags for you, Emily, and the baby. The doctor should be there the second we arrive,” She nodded and then looked up at the window. “We’re about fifteen minutes away. Your wife is understandably anxious about giving birth to your firstborn early and so she needs to be reassured. We’ll stop at the emergency bay. Be ready in a few.”

A few minutes later, nurses were opening the passenger seat and transferring Emily to the gurney. “Would you like to go back to the restaurant now, chef?” Andy asked.

“Where else would we go?” Miranda said, her eyebrows knitting together.

“You have some time to kill, we can go to Dalton and pick up the kids,” Andy replied. Miranda turned to her and watched as Andrea blushed lightly. “I mean, your kids, obviously. My mom used to pull us out for lunch and bring us back just in time for our next class on special occasions. It was cool. You’re not asking them to play hooky or anything, it’s a nice surprise.”

“Only for lunch,” Miranda replied. “You will pick the restaurant and choose something that is to my liking and that of the children. Then we go back to the restaurant.”

She started unbuttoning her jacket. When Andy peeked at the rearview mirror, the jacket opened to reveal a fitted low collar turtleneck. She found herself blushing hotly and fixed a determined gaze on the road. “I trust you have a decent set of clothes in this car?” Miranda asked, eyeing the bag on the floor. Andy nodded. “The children might want to eat at Per Se.”

Andy snorted.

“Do you have something to say?”

“No, chef,” Andy said, smirking. “It’s just… You have three kids, I know only one of them who would choose Per Se over a hearty meal at any other restaurant.”

“You noticed that.”

“Hard not to notice the kid who hovers while you add spices to milk,” Andy said, the lightness of her tone betraying a warmth and kindness Miranda did not expect. “It wasn’t like I was doing molecular gastronomy, that would be really exciting for her. I was just toasting spices.”

“For a child who needed comfort and two children who wanted to support him,” Miranda said, quietly. “You must know what that means. Especially to a parent.”

“Anyone would have done the same.”

Miranda found that she had nothing to say to that.

* * *

Andy leaned against the pickup truck while waiting for Miranda to exit with three children from Dalton. The more she got to know the woman, the harder it was to tamp down her existing girl crush. It was easy to fantasize about Miranda, to think about kissing down an ivory neck or kissing the disappointment off of those pursed lips, but it was far more difficult to keep herself from fantasizing about days when they can drive each other to work, evenings she can spend at the townhouse with Miranda and the three children, or lunches where they fetch the kids to whisk them away for lunch at some restaurant either of them had just enjoyed a meal at.

If Miranda was anything but straight, maybe she’d have a chance, but she’d been married twice. To men. Dated a few of them too. Nothing about her romantic life gave Andy hope about her crush. She should probably take up Doug and Lily on their offer to set her up.

“Andy!” Cassidy called out and soon enough, Asher was smiling up at her. She felt her lips turn up in return and the two of them exchanged high fives. “What are you doing here?”

“I guess I’m your driver today,” She replied. “We brought Emily to the hospital and then your mom thought she’d surprise you and take you out for lunch.”

“Where are we going?” Caroline asked.

“Oh, that’s a surprise too,” Andy said, smirking. “Come on, you three, we only have your lunch break, and the two of us have to get back to the restaurant after that.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Yeah, what’s going on, Mom?” Cassidy asked. “You’ve never taken us out to lunch like this.”

Andy’s hand stopped, the door hanging as the three kids clambered into the backseat. Her eyes widened as she looked at Miranda. “You haven’t told them?”

“Told us what?” The twins exclaimed.

“Sam Sifton’s review for Rouge came in this morning.”

“And?” Caroline asked, almost squishing the two other kids in her excitement.

“Your mother got four stars.” The twins squealed and Caroline leaned forward to hug Miranda. Andy turned to Asher, who smiled but hadn’t mustered up the same enthusiasm. “It’s an A+, bud. Four stars means an A+ in the restaurant world.”

He grinned widely and leaned forward for his own hug. “Congrats, Auntie Mira.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Now, let’s go, or we’re really going to be late,” Andy said, and she walked around to enter the driver’s seat and start the car.

Andy decided to bring them to Jack’s Wife Freda, an American-Meditteranean spot that she’d been to with a few friends from culinary school. Miranda looked around and gave Andy a small nod, and she had to try not to fist pump to celebrate. Caroline and Cassidy seemed taken with the decorations and the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. Asher looked around and smiled at the scent of the food. Their server quickly ushered them to a table and gave them menus. From the corner of her eye, Andy saw their server head into the kitchen, no doubt telling them Miranda Priestly had dropped by for lunch.

“So, have you guys decided on what you want?” Andy asked them. She smiled at Caroline and Miranda who were seated together, their eyebrows knitted together as they looked at the menu. “Also, do you guys have any food allergies that I need to know about?”

The four Priestlys shook their heads. “Will eat anything, got it,” Andy grinned.

Andy turned to look at Asher, who looked mildly distressed. “What is it, bud?” She whispered.

“I just want chicken tenders. Or a cheeseburger,” He said. “But I don’t know a lot of this.”

“That’s alright,” Andy said, smiling. “I didn’t eat these things when I was younger, either.” To Miranda and girls, she said, “I grew up in a diner. Not so greasy, my mom tried to keep things healthy when she could, but it was still an old-fashioned American diner in Cincinnati.”

“You like chicken, right?” The boy nodded. “Do you like spicy stuff?” Asher nodded again. “You can still get the tenders or the cheeseburger, but if you want to try something new, you can get the peri-peri chicken wings. It’s not like buffalo wings, that’s a different kind of spicy because the peri-peri sauce uses a different pepper. Or the chicken kebab. It’s your choice, bud.”

Miranda was watching the two of them. Asher seemed deep in thought and then he asked Andy, “What if I want to try the steak sandwich?”

“That’s okay too. You want to get it with fries?” Andy replied and Asher nodded. “Alright, we’ll do it. I was thinking of getting the kebab and the grilled halloumi, so if you want to try it, I can share.”

“Cool. What's halloumi?”

"It's a type of cheese, a bit salty, but we'll ask them to make sure they grill it well," Andy assured him. “Lemonade?”

“Yes please.”

“Alright, bud, I got you,” Andy said, and patted him on the back. “What about you three?”

“They won’t decide until the server arrives, trust me,” Cassidy said. “I’ll have the green shakshuka and then I’ll get the arugula. And lemonade for me too, please.”

True enough, Caroline and Miranda couldn’t decide until the server had finished taking their orders. Miranda had opted for a mashed avocado on seeded bread sandwich and Caroline had decided on the chicken prego sandwich with avocado and arugula salad. The five of them enjoyed light conversation during their meal, with Andy talking about her early days working at her parents’ diner. Caroline seemed particularly enthralled when Andy mentioned that her dad started her on the line at twelve. Her eyes were gleaming when she turned towards her mother.

“Mom, you should let me work at Rouge,” Caroline said, punctuating her request with a doe-eyed ‘Please!’ “Look, she got an early start and now she’s a really good chef.”

“That remains to be seen,” Miranda said dryly.

“Mom!”

“Besides, you’re too young, bobbsie,” Miranda replied. “Andrea’s parents may have been able to get away with it, but I don’t think the city government and the health department will look kindly at me putting my own twelve-year-old to work. We’ll find classes for you this summer, alright?”

“What about me?” Andy asked.

“What about you?” Miranda replied. Then she grinned, a sight that made Andy’s stomach flutter. “I’ll find classes for you, too.”

Andy barked out a laugh. “Ha! If I wasn’t up to snuff, you would’ve kicked me out of your kitchen, chef. I’ve survived two months, you can stop pretending that you hate me.”

Miranda looked taken aback. “I never hated you.”

“You clearly didn’t like me when you first saw me.”

“It still doesn’t mean that I hated you,” Miranda sniffed. “What a preposterous idea.”

Andy raised her hands in apology. “Alright, I’m sorry. I appreciate you saying so.” She smiled and shyly added, “I’ve always looked up to you, and it would’ve pained me if you hated me. That's all I'm gonna say without embarrassing myself. Sorry I made an assumption, chef.”

Miranda’s lips were a hard line, and then she nodded.

The five of them enjoyed a good lunch, and Andy was delighted to introduce Caroline to the owner, Dean, who managed to stop by as he was doing his rounds of their restaurants. Asher had thoroughly enjoyed his sandwich and was singing its praises to Dean, and Cassidy ordered dessert to go, even. Miranda complimented him on the food and the service and he glowed.

“You’re blushing, Dean,” Andy said, as he walked them to the parking lot.

“Fuck off, Sachs,” He responded and clapped her on her shoulder. “When are you moving in?”

“Shut up, she might hear you!”

“Oh, please, those kids already adore you,” He replied. “It’s only a matter of time before she does.”

“Thanks for the great food, you know I always love coming here. Say hi to the missus and the kid for me,” Andy replied, and the two of them shared a quick hug.

“Don’t forget about me when you get married,” Dean jibed. “We cater too!”

By the time she got to the truck, there were three grinning kids looking up at her and Miranda was lightly tapping her foot on the concrete. She mumbled a quick apology and let them all in. “Andrea, we’re heading back to Rouge,” Miranda declared, matter-of-factly. “They’re taking the day off.”

The three kids cheered.

As Andy pulled out of the parking lot, she spared a glance at the rearview mirror, with three obviously delighted children and then a glance to the woman in the passenger seat, wondering what the hell she was doing falling in love with this woman and her entire family.


End file.
